Page 118 of 4-Ever

I had my share of doubts about how I was going to handle being in a relationship. Worries that were valid.

But loving Faise was not one of them.

CHAPTER 38

FAISE

JULY 4

There was no better way for us to welcome the 4th of July than with a concert.

Were we shaken up? No question.

Were we going to let the fans down and cancel the show? No fucking way.

With Dallas arrested, I didn’t worry that we’d have a repeat of the other night. Or that we’d have any trouble from him again. According to Elias, Dallas was facing so many charges that he’d probably spend the next decade or so in jail. Not to mention the civil cases we’d file against him.

But Ronin was still worried. He was quiet, not like his usual self. I understood. We were all worried about Ciara and how she was handling things. Maybe it was being on the road, maybe it was being surrounded by our crew, and our security team, but as far as I could tell, Ciara seemed to be doing okay.

We’d spent most of the previous day talking about what happened. And we reassured her again that it wasn’t the first, and probably not the last, scary incident we’d face.

Holls had been attacked by a stalker a few months ago and Quinn, one of our former bodyguards, had been shot in the process. Quinn was okay (he was working with Dawson as a private investigator), but the whole thing had given us a stark wakeup call. The bigger Wayward Lane got, the more attention we’d attracted—good and bad. It was something we’d have to deal with from here on out. And anyone involved with us was the same.

Ronin was the one I was worried about. He didn’t want to let me or Ciara out of his sight.

To be fair, I was the same. With him, with everyone in our family.

I called my sponsor and talked for nearly a half hour. A record for me. But I didn’t want any anxiety to fester.

Then I reached out to my therapist, and set up a time for me and Ronin, and Ciara to talk about everything that had happened.

After that was done, I wandered through the concert venue to find my boyfriend on stage, alone (besides our bodyguards), strumming away on his bass. He had bandages on his palms, but he insisted he was fine to play.

“Hey,” I called out as I stepped onto the stage.

I thought Ronin had spotted me but the jolt of his body and the fact that he missed a note, was telling.

“Hey, baby,” he asked me without looking up. “What’s up?”

“I could ask you the same. You’ve been unusually quiet. Are you sure you’re doing okay?”

He shook his head and continued to play.

“Ronin?”

“I don’t want to talk right now. I just need my routine. I’m fine.”

I wasn’t going to push. Not yet. Like me, Ronin was stubborn. When he was ready, I would know. But if it didn’t happen soon, I’d have no choice.

Our road crew started to fill the stage, getting our equipment in place. Ace and Tommy helped us with soundcheck, but it took forever. Shit was misplaced, the mics kept glitching, and tempers were short. Brodie especially. After belting out one chorus of Sideline, he suddenly stopped, swore, and walked off the stage.

Jesse told us to keep going and Van went after his husband.

Things went downhill after that.

The opening act, Killmine, were delayed due to their flight, so we’d be going on earlier than expected. We’d become fast friends with their lead singer, Nate Filier, and his band brothers when we performed in their hometown of NOLA in October. But even the prospect of hanging out with those guys again didn’t improve the somber mood.

We got changed, as usual, and had our hair and makeup done. But that routine too was filled with a chilly silence. Then we hung around, just the four of us, before showtime. Van brought us a round of much-needed tequila shots, but instead of celebrating like we usually did, we just drank and said nothing.

---